"A mistake I'll not be making twice," replied Tuck, rubbing his cheek. He turned as Angharad pushed forward to greet him. "Bless my soul, Angharad, you look even younger than the last time I saw you."

Wise and powerful she may be, but Angharad was still lady enough to smile at the shameless compliment. "Peace attend thee, friend friar," she said, her wrinkled face alight.

"Brother Tuck!" cried Iwan, and instantly gathered the sturdy friar in a rib-cracking embrace. "It is that good to see you."

"And you,Wee John," retorted the priest, giving the warrior a clip 'round the ear. "I've missed you and all." Iwan set him down, and the priest gazed at the ring of happy faces around him. "Well, Bran, and I see you and your flock have fared well enough without me." Adjusting his robe to cover his cold bare legs once more, he then raised his hands in a priestly benediction. "God's peace and mercy on us all, and may our Kind Redeemer send the comfort of this blessed season to cheer our hearts and heal our careworn souls."

Everyone cried "Amen!" to that, and when Tuck turned back to Bran, he said, "Some new faces, I see."

"One or two," confirmed Bran. He grasped the priest's hands in his own, then presented the newcomers; I found myself last among them. "And this one here," he said, pulling me forward, "is the newest member of our growing flock and as handy with a bow as King Raven himself."

"That's saying something, that is," remarked Tuck.

"Will Scatlocke, at your service," I said, thrusting out my hand to him.

He took it in both his own and shook it heartily. "Our Lord's abundant peace to you, Will Scatlocke."

"And to you, Friar. See now, two Saxons fallen among Welshmen," I said in English.

He cast a shrewd eye over me. "Is that the north country I hear in your voice?"

"Oh, aye," I confessed. "Deny it, I'll not. Your ear is sharp as Queen Meg's needle, Friar."

"Born within sight of York Minster, was I not? But tell me, how did you come to take roost among these strange birds?"

"Lost my living to William Rufus-may God bless his backside with boils!-and so I came west," I told him, and explained quickly how, after many months of living rough and wandering, Bran had taken me in.

"Enough!" cried Bran. "There is time for all that later. We have Christmas tomorrow and a celebration to prepare!"

Ah, Christmas… how long had it been since I had celebrated the feast day of Our Sweet Saviour in proper style? Years, at least-not since I had sat at table in Thane Aelred's hall with a bowl of hot punch between my hands and a huge pig a-roasting on the spit over red-hot coals in the hearth. Glad times. I have always enjoyed the Feast of Christ-the food and song and games… everything taken together, it is the best of all the holy days, and that is how it should be.

I did not know how the Cymry hereabouts celebrated the Christ Mass, and nursed the strong suspicion that if Friar Tuck had not arrived when he did, King Bran's pitiable flock would have had little with which to make their cheer. But when his pack mule arrived a short while later, it was clear that the friar had brought Christmas with him.

Within moments, he seemed to be everywhere at once, kindling the banked coals of the forest-dwellers' hearts-a word of greeting here, a song there, a laugh or a story to lift the spirits of our downcast tribe. Bless him, he fanned the cold embers of joy into a cracking fine blaze.

Although they have adopted some of the more common Saxon practices, the Britons appeared not to observe the trimming of pine boughs, so it fell to Tuck and me to arrange this part of the festivities. The day had cleared somewhat, with bright blue showing through the clouds, so the two of us walked into the nearby wood to cut some suitable branches and bring them back. This we did, talking as we worked, and learning to know one another better.

"What we need now," declared Tuck when we had cut enough greenery to satisfy tradition, "is a little holly."

"As good as got," I told him, and asked why he thought it needful.

"Why? It is a most potent symbol, and that is reason enough," the priest replied. "See here, prickly leaves remind us of the thorns our dear Lamb of God suffered with silent fortitude, and the red berries remind us of the drops of healing blood he shed for us. The tree remains green all the year round, and the leaves never die-which shows us the way of eternal life for those who love the Saviour."

"Then, by all means," I said, "let us bring back some holly, too."

Shouldering our cut boughs of spruce and pine, we made our way back to the village, pausing to collect a few of the prickly green branches on the way. "And will we have a Yule log?" I asked as we resumed our walk.

"I have no objection," the friar allowed. "A harmless enough observance, quite pleasant in its own way. Yes, why not?"

Why not, indeed! Of all the odd bits that go to make up this age-old fest, I hold the Yule log chief among them and was glad our friar offered no objection. The way some clerics have it, a fella'd think it was Lucifer himself dragged into the hall on Christmas day. For all, it's just a log-a big one, mind, but a log all the same.

As Thane Aelred's forester, it always fell to me to find the log. We'd walk out together, lord and vassal, of a Christmas morn-along with one of the thane's sons or daughters astride a big ox-and drag the log back to the hall, where it would be pulled through the door and its trimmed end set in a hearth already ablaze. Then, as the end burned, we'd feed that great hulk of wood inch by inch into the flame. Green as apples, that log would sputter and crack and sizzle as the sap touched the flame, filling the hall with its strong scent. We always chose a timber too green to burn any other time for the simple reason that, so long as that log was a-roast, none of the servants had to lift a finger beyond the simple necessities required to keep the celebration going.

A good Yule log could last a fortnight. I suspect it was the idleness of the vassals that got up so many priest's noses. They do so hate to see anyone taking his ease. Then again, there was the ashes. See, when the feasting was over and the log reduced to cold embers, those selfsame ashes were gathered up to be used in various ways: we sprinkled some on cattle to ensure health and hearty offspring; we scattered some in the fields to encourage abundant crops; and, of course, sheep had their fleece dusted to improve the quality of their wool. A little was mixed with the first brewing of ale for the year to aid in warding off sickness and ill temper, and so on. In all, the ashes of a Yule log provided a useful and necessary commodity.

Over time, a good few of the Britons took up the Yule log tradition, just like many of the Saxons succumbed to the ancient and honourable Celtic rite of eating gammon on Christ's day. To be sure, a Saxon never requires much encouragement where the eating of pigs is at issue, less yet if there is also to be drinking ale. So, naturally, a great many priests try to stamp out the practice of burning Yule trees.

"Well now," said Tuck, when I remarked on his obvious charity towards a custom most of his ilk found offensive, "they have their reasons, do they not? But I tell the folk who ask me that the fire provided is the flame of faith, which burns brightest through the darkest nights of the year, feeding on the log-which is the holy, sustaining word of God, ever new and renewed, day by day, year by year. The ashes, then, are the dust of death, the residue of our sins when all has been cleansed in the Refiner's fire."

"Well said, Brother."

"You seem a thoughtful sort of man, Will," the cheerful cleric observed.

"I hope I am," I replied.

"And dependable?"

"It would please me if folk considered me so."